Before Dylan calls his first witness, Harrison calls us into his chambers. He has seen the news reports and wants to know if I am concerned for my safety. If so, he will order the marshals to provide special protection for me in and around the courthouse.
I think Marcus has things fairly well under control, and I certainly don’t think the courthouse area is where Quintana will come after me, but I don’t tell this to Harrison. “Thank you, Your Honor, I would appreciate whatever protection you can arrange.”
I want the media, and maybe even the jury, to see that the court thinks I am in danger. This will tell them very clearly that there are killers involved in this case other than my client.
Dylan is smart enough to pick up on this. “Your Honor, I certainly want to ensure Mr. Carpenter’s safety…”
I turn to Judge Harrison and interrupt, pointing to Dylan. “Is he a heck of a guy or what?”
Dylan stares a dagger at me and finishes his sentence. “… but I am concerned that this can be played to the defense’s advantage.” He goes on to explain how, accurately summarizing my reasons for wanting the protection in the first place.
Harrison takes this under consideration, then decides to order the extra protection, with a directive that it be as unobtrusive as possible. He also orders me not to mention it outside of these chambers. Unless the media are extra aware, my advantage has effectively been negated. Point to Dylan.
I’m sure it’s the first of many points that Dylan will make today. He calls State Police Detective Hector Alvarez, who led the group of four detectives who first arrived at Kenny Schilling’s house that day. He was in command until Captain Dessens was called to take charge of the explosive confrontation.
Alvarez describes a very nervous Kenny refusing to let the officers in. When they became more insistent and threatened to enter forcibly, Kenny brandished a handgun and fired a shot to fend them off. They then took out their own weapons, retreated, and called for backup support. As told, the jury could not help but think that Kenny’s actions demonstrated a clear consciousness of guilt.
Kenny has been steadfast in claiming that the officers took out their weapons first, but in cross-examination I am unable to get Alvarez to agree with that. The closest I can come is to get him to admit that his men were surrounding the house and he could not see a number of them. He claims that they would not draw their weapons without being so ordered, but they were not in his line of sight at the time.
“Detective, were any of your men shot or wounded?”
“No.”
“But a shot was fired by Mr. Schilling?”
“Yes,” he says emphatically.
“So he missed?”
“Fortunately.”
“Did you retrieve the bullet?”
He shakes his head. “No. We couldn’t find it.”
“Might he have fired into the air?” I ask.
“It’s possible.”
“As if he was trying to scare you away but not hurt you?”
Dylan objects that Alvarez couldn’t know Kenny’s motivation for firing, and Harrison sustains. I move on.
“Detective, is it possible that Mr. Schilling didn’t believe that you were police officers?”
“I verbally identified us as such and held up my badge to the peephole in the door.”
“Are you sure he was looking through it? Can you tell from the outside?” I know from examining it that it’s impossible, so I’m hoping to trap him.
“I believe he was. I can’t be sure,” he says, avoiding the trap.
“Were any of your men in uniform?”
“No.”
“So it’s possible he thought you were lying? That you were not police, but rather intruders that might cause him physical harm?”
“That doesn’t make sense,” he says.
“What if he had just received a major emotional jolt, one that made him fearful, panicked, before you arrived? A jolt in which he, just for argument’s sake, found his friend murdered in a closet with a bullet in his chest? Might that have caused him to worry about your men coming at him with guns?”
“I believe he knew we were the police, and that’s why he didn’t want to let us in.” He shakes his head firmly. “Mr. Schilling’s actions were not those of an innocent person.”
“Lieutenant, does the name Luther Kent mean anything to you?”
Alvarez reacts, stiffening slightly. “Yes.”
“Please tell the jury how you came to be aware of Mr. Kent.”
In a softer voice he describes a night four years ago when he and his partner came upon Mr. Kent on a street. They approached him, since he resembled the sketch of a man wanted as a serial rapist in that neighborhood. Kent panicked and ran, and in the resulting chase he was shot and killed by Alvarez’s partner.
“Was Mr. Kent later shown to be the rapist?” I ask.
Alvarez takes a deep breath; this is not easy for him. “No. DNA tests cleared him. The actual rapist was arrested two days later.”
Dylan sees where I’m going and objects as to relevance, but he should have objected earlier in the questioning. Now that it’s gone this far, Harrison is not about to stop it, and he doesn’t.
I continue. “Did Mr. Kent have a criminal record? Any indication he had ever done anything which should have made him afraid of the police?”
“No.”
“But different people react differently to stressful situations, isn’t that right?”
“Of course, but that has nothing to do with this case.”
“Because since then you’ve become a master at predicting and judging reactions? You’ve taken a mind-reading course at the Police Academy?”
Dylan objects, and this time Harrison sustains, but I’ve made my point, and I let Alvarez off the stand.
It’s been another day of making small points that do not affect the big picture. I have absolutely no ability to prove that Kenny did not commit this murder; my only hope still rests with trying to convince the jury that it could well have been a drug killing by Quintana’s people. I can only introduce this during the defense case, so I have to be patient and bide my time.
I head back to the office to pick up some papers to read over after tonight’s meeting, and before I leave, I stop in at Sam Willis’s office. He’s been working hard with Adam, and I haven’t had a chance to thank him.
“Happy to do it,” Sam says. “He’s a natural on a computer. He can dig things up that I can’t.”
That’s obviously an overstatement, but Sam doesn’t throw praise around indiscriminately. Adam must be picking up Sam’s tricks really well.
“You’ve both been a really big help.”
“He’s doing most of it,” Sam says. “I’m telling you, he should give up this California movie bullshit and come work here. Him and me and two computers, we could rule the world.”
I smile at the image. “You told him that?” I ask.
“Sure did. I said, say goodbye to Hollywood.”
Uh-oh. That sounds like a song, but I can’t place it, and once again I didn’t prepare any material to engage in song-talking competition.
“Okay,” I say, ready to bail out before I become inundated in lyrics.
Sam goes on. “Then I figured I shouldn’t have said it, that it’s none of my business. So I said, ‘Hey, Adam, don’t mind me. California’s okay, but I’m in a New York state of mind.’”
Got it. Billy Joel.
“I should go, Sam. Laurie’s waiting for me.”
He’s not quite ready for me to leave. “How are things going with her?” Sam asks.
“Nothing new. Still deciding.”
Sam shakes his head in sympathy for my situation. “I think you need to be aggressive. Don’t just stand around and wait for her to make the move. Talk to her.”
“And say what?”
“Well, I can’t put myself in your shoes, but I’ll tell you what I said when I was in a similar situation. After I graduated college, this girl and I
moved in together. We were thinking of getting married, but she kept threatening to leave. Finally, I told her, ‘Hey, babe, I don’t care what you say anymore, this is my life. Go ahead with your own life and leave me alone.’”
He’s going to keep song-talking until I come up with a response, but none comes to mind at the moment.
“I mean it; you gotta take a stand,” he continues. “And don’t worry; I know Laurie. She’s not gonna move to that hick town. She’s an uptown girl; she’s been living in her uptown world.”
Ah, hah! An idea. “That’s not what I’m going to tell her,” I say.
“What are you gonna say?” he asks
“I’ll be honest; I’ll tell her the truth. I’ll say, ‘I just want someone that I can talk to. I love you just the way you are.’”
He nods his understanding. “Good for you, man. But that honesty, it’s such a lonely word.”
WEEKENDS ARE VERY difficult during a trial. Each day in court is intense and pressure-filled, and when the weekend comes around, the need to withdraw and relax is palpable. But there is no withdrawing, and no relaxing, because there is too much to do, and in the back of my mind I know that the opposition is always working.
I meet Walter Simmons, the Giants’ legal VP, for breakfast. I had told him I’d keep him informed of progress, within the confines of lawyer-client privilege. He’s been helpful in getting his players to meet with various members of our team, so I feel I owe him this time.
The Giants won their first game last week, but did it by passing for three hundred fifty yards and returning two interceptions for touchdowns. The running game gained an anemic sixty-one yards. After I update him on the status of the trial, he says, “Sounds like we should trade for a running back.”
“We’ve got a decent chance,” I lie.
“Yeah. And we’re going to win the Super Bowl.”
I shake my head. “Not without a better kicker. But before too long I may have somebody for you.”
He doesn’t pick up on it, and I decide against telling him my plans. Since it takes very little physical prowess, he could decide to try it as well. One thing I don’t need is more competition.
Adam calls me on my cell phone to tell me that he’s in the office and that he hopes it’s okay with me. “The computer here is much faster than using my laptop at the hotel,” he says.
“No problem,” I say. “When do you want to update me on progress?”
“Pretty soon. There’s a couple more things I need to check out first.”
I head home for an afternoon of reading and rereading of case material. First I take Tara for a walk and a short tennis ball toss in the park; I’ve been feeling guilty at how little time I’ve spent with her. That guilt is increased when I once again see how much she enjoys it. Afterward, we stop off for a bagel and some water, and by the time we get home, I’ve thoroughly enjoyed the brief respite away from the case.
I plunge into the material and barely notice the college football game I have on in the background. Laurie comes in at about four carrying grocery bags. She says, “Hi, honey,” and comes over to give me a kiss. It’s domestic bliss straight out of Ozzie and Harriet, and for all my cynicism it feels really good.
“Have you seen David and Ricky?” I ask.
She’s never seen Ozzie and Harriet, since she doesn’t watch old reruns as religiously as I do, so she has no idea about whom I’m talking. Once I explain it to her, she doesn’t seem interested in it. This isn’t working; I need a woman who can be my intellectual equal.
She starts unloading the groceries. “I thought we’d barbecue some seafood tonight.”
“Fish?” I ask, my disappointment showing through. “What is there, a hamburger strike going on?”
With all the work I have, the idea of stopping to cook fish is not pleasing. Of course, I have no idea how long it will take because I don’t know how long one is supposed to cook fish. I know some should be cooked through, some rare, and some just seared, but I don’t have a clue which is which. “I don’t have a lot of time,” I say.
“I’m going to cook it,” she says.
Uh-oh. Another sign of independence. “Are we forgetting who the boy is in this relationship? I am the barbecuer, you are the barbecuee.”
“You’re a man’s man,” she says, and then goes off into the kitchen to marinate the fish in whatever the hell you marinate fish in. They spend their whole life in liquid, and then they have to soak in liquid before you cook them? The ocean didn’t get them wet enough? Hopefully, these particular fish have to marinate for two weeks, but I doubt it.
They’re soaking for about ten minutes when the phone rings. Laurie gets it, and from the kitchen I hear her say, “Hi, Vince… What?” She listens some more and then says, “Vince, he’s here with me. He’s right here.” There is a tension in her voice that chills me to the bone.
She comes rushing into the room and goes right to the television, changing the football game to CNN. I stand up—I’m not sure why—and start walking toward the television, as if I’ll find out what the hell is going on if I’m closer.
I see myself on television; it’s footage from a panel show I did some months before. My lips are moving, but the sound is muted so that the announcer can talk over me. I don’t hear what he is saying because my eyes are riveted to the blaring message across the bottom of the screen: “Schilling lawyer murdered.”
My mind can’t process what is going on. Why would they think I was murdered? Can it be Kevin? Is he the person they’re calling a Schilling lawyer? Then why are they showing me?
“Andy…” It’s Laurie’s voice attempting to cut through the confused mess that is my mind. “They’re saying that you were shot and killed in your office this afternoon.”
And then it hits me, with a searing pain that feels like it explodes my insides. “Let’s go,” I say, and run toward my car. Laurie is with me every step of the way, and within five minutes we are approaching my office.
We have to park two blocks away because the place is such a mob scene. Laurie knows one of the officers protecting the perimeter, and he lets us through the barricades. Pete Stanton is standing next to a patrol car, in front of the fruit stand below my office.
“Pete…” is all I can manage.
“It’s the writer, Andy. Adam. He took two shots in the face and one in the chest. Died instantly.”
I can’t adequately describe the pain I feel, but I know I’ve felt it before. Sam Willis had a young assistant named Barry Leiter who was murdered because he was helping me investigate a case. Like then, I find my legs giving out from under me, and I have to lean against the car for support.
“Why?” I say, but I know why. Adam was blown apart by bullets that were meant for me.
“We just arrested Quintana, Andy. I don’t know if we can make it stick, but he ordered it done. No question about it.”
“I want to see him,” I say, and push off from the car. It’s only then that I realize that Laurie has her arm around me, and she keeps that arm around me all the way up the stairs. She is supporting me, and she is sobbing.
There are officers and forensics people everywhere, finishing up their work. They seem to part as we approach, mainly because Pete is with us telling them to. Suddenly, there just inside the office door, we see a body covered by a sheet. I am getting goddamn sick of seeing people I care about covered by sheets.
I’m not sure how long we’re at the office, probably a couple of hours. Pete has a lot of questions he has to ask me, but he doesn’t make me go down to the station to answer them. Sam Willis shows up, having heard the news on television, and he lets us use his office. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen Sam cry.
There is little I can tell Pete that he doesn’t already know. He’s aware of the incident where Marcus threw Ugly out the window, and he was there the night Marcus stopped Ugly and his friend from breaking into my house and roughing me up.
Pete tells me that Ugly and his friend are still in
custody and have been since that night. “That probably cost Adam his life,” I say. “Whoever Quintana sent didn’t know me by sight… they thought Adam was me.”
Pete shakes his head. “Maybe, maybe not. They probably came in shooting and didn’t even wait to look. Maybe Adam never knew what was coming.”
For the record, and for Pete’s tape recorder, I take him through the reason Adam came here in the first place. I also describe Adam’s gradual evolution into being helpful on the Schilling case, but I refuse to provide details, citing attorney-client privilege.
Pete tries to probe, to find out as much as he can, explaining that the murder has to be investigated fully. Though he strongly believes that it was a case of mistaken identity and that I was the target, the investigation cannot prejudge that. It has to start with the assumption that Adam was the target and look for reasons why. I understand that, and I’m fine with Pete doing an inventory of the office where Adam was working and taking whatever he needs.
“Just remember that his notes about the Schilling case are privileged, so I’d appreciate it if only you’d look at them first to see if they’re relevant. And I’ll need them back as soon as you can.”
Pete’s fine with that and tells me that I can go. As we reach the street, Willie Miller screeches to a halt in his car and jumps out. He sees me, and his eyes just about bug out of his head. “Man, they said you…”
Without another word he hugs me. I can count the number of male hugs I’ve liked on very few fingers, and I don’t like this one, but I appreciate it. After a few moments I break it off. “Adam was killed, Willie. They shot him thinking it was me.”
Willie looks at me disbelieving, then his face briefly contorts in a kind of rage I’m not sure I’ve ever seen before. Without a word, in a lightning-quick move he puts his hand through the front window of his car, smashing it to bits. I know Willie holds a black belt in karate, but it’s still an amazing sight to behold.
Sudden Death Page 15